Did you know that when you're pregnant you mysteriously turn into the cookie monster? I lived in denial for a few months but when my doctor told me that I needed to go on a diet, that too while pregnant, I had to admit it. On the pretext of "cravings" and "I have to eat for two people now", the cookie monster demanded chocolate chip cookies at midnight and BLT Sandwiches for breakfast; of course it all depended on what the baby was asking for at the time, I couldn't ignore that could I. Now if you think the cookie monster was just being a complete ravenous pig and randomly stuffing its face, you're wrong. There were phases, like on some full moons the monster had to have its steak 'blue'.
Up until two months I had no cravings at all; well it was already a month before I found out I was preggers and the month following that the fact that I was preggers was just sinking in. So when you're starting your 3rd month it's perfect for cravings because now everyone's been given the "good news" and with the hormones working full time everyone's just better off doing what they're told i.e supplying the monster food everyday.
It started one day with a bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut, which was innocently picked up during grocery shopping. The next day another one mysteriously found its way into my handbag; it must've hopped in at the bakery while I was not looking. These bars then started showing up at my house and to destroy all evidence of its existence were promptly devoured. Then when I would run out of stock (these bars sometimes got lazy and just stopped showing up) the husband would get a call to pick up some on his way back.
This phase lasted about 3 weeks and then I went cold turkey on the Fruit & Nut bars; no more chocolate for me, it was time to bring on the meat. In the month following the Fruit & Nut phase, the demographics of domestic herbivores reported a sharp downward trend. Before 'Vegetarians R Us' and PETA could stage a demonstration in front of my house I switched to Biriyanis, mostly Chicken but since the fowl was also consumed with huge amounts of rice I didn't look so bad. I didn't eat the biriyanis everyday though I wanted them. One night I had cooked soggy dal for dinner, yet again, (When all you want to do is sleep after getting back from work, soggy dal it is. I didn't sprout an extra pair of hands that looked like ladles when no one was looking) and of course one look at it made me crave for my new found love, biriyani. So hubby gets a call to pick up biriyani on his way back from work. So while he was eating the soggy dal that I had so lovingly prepared I was wolfing down the biriyani. I did save him some leftovers though.
If anyone knows what you want to eat when you're pregnant, its Mama. Without my asking I would receive parcels of the yummiest Mangalorean food. She would generously send enough to feed even my neighbours, but we all know where that went. There were 'Garios', fried balls made of primarily jackfruit pulp and rice flour; 'Patholis' which are steamed rolls that come in two versions, one out jackfuit pulp, rice flour and coconut and the other out of jaggery and coconut wrapped in a rice flour paste. Also, Mangalorean preparations of Pork and beef were sent my way every other week; there was PETA ready to strike again. Everyday the cookie monster religiously raided her fridge and made sure that these parcels of love (and loads of calories) fulfilled their purpose.
But all of your pregnancy cannot be one huge gastronomical party. Enter the husband. Though I was taken out for gelatos (double the cost of an ice cream but healthier and less fat you see) at night and Italian whenever I heard Pavarotti on the radio, I was made to eat my fruits. Now bananas and oranges are the low maintenance ones, you take the whole fruit to work, wash, peel and eat, done. I had no qualms about these, these I would put into my lunch bag with a song. And if you're thinking what else can piss off this old gal, I'll tell you, its the Pomegranate. For everyday of my pregnant life I have eaten on an average two pomegranates, not because I loved them but because my husband made me. And no, he was not the one painstakingly peeling the damn things and packing them into the tupperware. One morning I went to work with what I thought was my pristine white shirt, not realising that my shirt looked like it had got the measles, there were pomegranate juice squirts all over it. After that I had to wake up an hour earlier than normal because you have to peel these things with either no clothes on, which would prompt my maid to run away from the job with no notice at all or at a meter's distance which made the peeling process quite impossible. Almost everyday I had nightmares of a giant pomegranate shooting its arils (yes thats what the things inside are called) at me in a white shirt. At the rate I was eating this fruit there was a slight chance that I would be giving birth to a baby covered with arils and would have to later explain them as birthmarks. That year pomegranate sales were at an all time high and my local fruit vendor apparently built a mansion and bought himself a Harley.
You'd think a person can eat only so much and I probably broke records which I didn't know of. But what better time to do that without feeling guilty eh? Now if I ask for ice cream at midnight it'll be received with an incoherent mumble and a possible kick in the shins.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Friday, April 08, 2011
Cricket Fever
Last week I caught Cricket fever, I was definitely running a temperature, couldn't eat (now that's a lie), couldn't sleep and most definitely that week my blood was blue; just that week, I am no princess. So obviously I had to ignore my blog and concentrate on the eleven men, 22 actually, playing the game.
What is it about India-Pak matches. The energy is different, the tension is super high and no matter what, your team cannot lose. You're thinking, "They can't lose this match man!", no one ever says, "They have gotta win this one".
I was at the stadium when India played Pakistan in 1996 at Bangalore. I was 16, (ok I would turn 17 that May, but till then I was still 16), cricket crazy, in love with the Indian cricket team and when my Dad told me that he had tickets to the Quarter final I did back flips and somersaults followed by what can only be described as an ancient tribal dance to please the god of love. This is all figuratively speaking of course, I don't know how to perform somersaults or back flips.
Two days before the match Dad tells me that he has to be in Madras for a meeting; who the hell schedules meetings when India is playing Pakistan in a World Cup! I thought what a jinx, I probably overdid the tribal dance bit. But I was not going to go down easy, I told Dad (and the god of love) I am going to watch the match no matter what (even if I had to dance naked). I assured Dad that he had nothing to worry about, I was capable of taking care of myself and if anybody tried anything funny I'd pummel him to death with my Coke bottle (the cola drink that is, not the illegal substance). To remind you, that year the official drinks sponsor was Coca Cola, though I don't think anyone remembers that; Pepsi was still on top after the "Nothing official about it" campaign they ran.
So on the 9th of March 1996, a zitty teenager with a limited fashion sense sporting a beret (I needed a hat didn't I), a summer dress and a pair of shoes that looked like work boots, (the guy who sold me those said they looked chic, the ruddy illegitimate offspring of a spurious father), was all set to watch India take on Pakistan in a World Cup quarter final. That day was surely something special. We cheered the Indians and booed the Pakistanis, empty coke bottles were used as percussion instruments, I hugged strangers because that's what I do during world cup matches and was just short of performing the tribal dance again. And yes, India won the match and it looked like the whole stadium needed to be sent to the loony bin and when I walked out of the stadium it seemed like the whole of Bangalore needed a trip to the loony bin as well. This is what I'd call a crazy atmosphere; people dancing on the road, some semi nude, fire crackers being burst right in the middle of the road with ongoing slow moving traffic and swarms and swarms of fans screaming their heads off, nothing intelligent, just screaming, most people couldn't get over the shock of India winning the match. Among all this, I was floating. It was surreal, there was frenzy everywhere and I was smiling like a damn fool (I must've looked pretty darned stoned) and floating.
Nothing much has changed since that world cup to this one, except that I am not a teenager anymore and I lost the beret right after that match; the work boots were mistaken for dinner by my dog one day, and since I hate wearing shoes with my heels and toes showing they got thrown out. Other than that I am still a cricket crazy girl and was bordering on delirium when India took on Pakistan once again in the World Cup. When the Indians came on to bat we were cheering and screaming so frantically, Kicky thought that her aunt and Mom had gone quite insane; but after we showed her the hand routine that follows a 4 (yes, the char run ka ishara) she joined the madness as well.
Towards the end of the match however my nerves were a ruddy tangled mess; how do these players manage to look so calm. I just couldn't watch the last few overs of the match and nearly had my t-shirt for dinner. The things these games make you eat! But all was well in the end, India ruled once again, my t-shirt just seemed a tad chewed on and I screamed so loudly out of joy that my husband still can't hear out of his left ear.
If that's what a semi final could do to me, then the final would have to send me to a hospital. I chanted the rosary after a 15 year sabbatical and the virgin probably said a hail mary herself. After the first half I had a headache from all the tension and praying and needed a cup of tea. The praying was resumed after the break and when it seemed like it was not working I went back to chewing on my clothes. I guess the chewing worked because India won the cup. I guess I'll keep my chewed on clothes as a souvenir, it could be the lucky charm for the next world cup.
What is it about India-Pak matches. The energy is different, the tension is super high and no matter what, your team cannot lose. You're thinking, "They can't lose this match man!", no one ever says, "They have gotta win this one".
I was at the stadium when India played Pakistan in 1996 at Bangalore. I was 16, (ok I would turn 17 that May, but till then I was still 16), cricket crazy, in love with the Indian cricket team and when my Dad told me that he had tickets to the Quarter final I did back flips and somersaults followed by what can only be described as an ancient tribal dance to please the god of love. This is all figuratively speaking of course, I don't know how to perform somersaults or back flips.
Two days before the match Dad tells me that he has to be in Madras for a meeting; who the hell schedules meetings when India is playing Pakistan in a World Cup! I thought what a jinx, I probably overdid the tribal dance bit. But I was not going to go down easy, I told Dad (and the god of love) I am going to watch the match no matter what (even if I had to dance naked). I assured Dad that he had nothing to worry about, I was capable of taking care of myself and if anybody tried anything funny I'd pummel him to death with my Coke bottle (the cola drink that is, not the illegal substance). To remind you, that year the official drinks sponsor was Coca Cola, though I don't think anyone remembers that; Pepsi was still on top after the "Nothing official about it" campaign they ran.
So on the 9th of March 1996, a zitty teenager with a limited fashion sense sporting a beret (I needed a hat didn't I), a summer dress and a pair of shoes that looked like work boots, (the guy who sold me those said they looked chic, the ruddy illegitimate offspring of a spurious father), was all set to watch India take on Pakistan in a World Cup quarter final. That day was surely something special. We cheered the Indians and booed the Pakistanis, empty coke bottles were used as percussion instruments, I hugged strangers because that's what I do during world cup matches and was just short of performing the tribal dance again. And yes, India won the match and it looked like the whole stadium needed to be sent to the loony bin and when I walked out of the stadium it seemed like the whole of Bangalore needed a trip to the loony bin as well. This is what I'd call a crazy atmosphere; people dancing on the road, some semi nude, fire crackers being burst right in the middle of the road with ongoing slow moving traffic and swarms and swarms of fans screaming their heads off, nothing intelligent, just screaming, most people couldn't get over the shock of India winning the match. Among all this, I was floating. It was surreal, there was frenzy everywhere and I was smiling like a damn fool (I must've looked pretty darned stoned) and floating.
Nothing much has changed since that world cup to this one, except that I am not a teenager anymore and I lost the beret right after that match; the work boots were mistaken for dinner by my dog one day, and since I hate wearing shoes with my heels and toes showing they got thrown out. Other than that I am still a cricket crazy girl and was bordering on delirium when India took on Pakistan once again in the World Cup. When the Indians came on to bat we were cheering and screaming so frantically, Kicky thought that her aunt and Mom had gone quite insane; but after we showed her the hand routine that follows a 4 (yes, the char run ka ishara) she joined the madness as well.
Towards the end of the match however my nerves were a ruddy tangled mess; how do these players manage to look so calm. I just couldn't watch the last few overs of the match and nearly had my t-shirt for dinner. The things these games make you eat! But all was well in the end, India ruled once again, my t-shirt just seemed a tad chewed on and I screamed so loudly out of joy that my husband still can't hear out of his left ear.
If that's what a semi final could do to me, then the final would have to send me to a hospital. I chanted the rosary after a 15 year sabbatical and the virgin probably said a hail mary herself. After the first half I had a headache from all the tension and praying and needed a cup of tea. The praying was resumed after the break and when it seemed like it was not working I went back to chewing on my clothes. I guess the chewing worked because India won the cup. I guess I'll keep my chewed on clothes as a souvenir, it could be the lucky charm for the next world cup.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Pregnancy Diaries: The Queen of Bad Times
Pregnancy can be hard; not can be, it is hard. The first four months were particularly hard for me. If you think I spent mornings with my head steeped in the toilet bowl, then you can spare the "I know how it feels" speech. Actually, I belonged to the group who saw no morning or evening sickness.
But that doesn't mean I didn't have any aversions. One particular brand of instant noodles made me go green and extremely nauseous. So while the whole family would enjoy a Sunday evening snack of instant noodles I'd stand in the balcony, which didn't overlook the pool but a huge dumping ground for garbage, waiting for everyone to finish and destroy all traces of the nauseating factor before they called me back in. Actually the foul smell emanating from the garbage was much more appealing than the instant noodles at that time.
Another nauseating factor was a particular brand of my sister's perfume. One day she was strutting around the house wearing this perfume and I was watching a food show whilst suddenly feeling extremely nauseous. It was either the food show or the perfume. The poor girl got told off for wearing the perfume, which I actually loved before and was sent to her room; what?! only until I was done watching the food show. Another time she was getting dressed for a party and there was that nauseous feeling again. She had worn "the" perfume. The poor girl stayed put in her room the whole time until her friend came to pick her up. That perfume was probably FedEx'ed to a tribal woman in Timbuktu. She didn't want to tick me off again and be resigned to the fate of being jailed in her room a third time.
Nausea is one thing; but being hormonal is a totally different streak. To compensate for not having any morning sickness, my hormones decided to have the cake and it eat it too. Now normally I do tend to get a little cranky and I have to agree that there is definitely a hint of nastiness in my nature. But the pregnancy hormones cranked up these things to a whole new level. The Queen of Bad Times had arrived. Who bore the brunt of these hormones? First the husband of course; I thought he'd divorce me at the end of nine months. I was actually surprised at how nasty I could be. Any question he asked was always returned with a retort, nothing witty, just plain mean.
Him: Are you feeling alright?
Me: None of your business
Him: Are you going to work today?
Me: None of your business
Him: Do you want me to pick you up from work?
Me: Just stop asking me stupid questions ok!
At first he'd ask me why I was behaving like a total lunatic. That would be met by a long winded speech on insensitivity, ignorance and how men had the best deal in all of this. But he learnt fast. I was still the lunatic but he took it in his stride and would not say a word. It's a wonder that he didn't go insane at the end of it all; all that pent up frustration I was causing him was definitely not easy to subdue.
My immediate family were not spared 'the horror that was me', either. One night my brothers, sister and a couple of their friends were home. At about one in the morning I was woken by this raucous laughter. And with that the hormones too were ignited into top gear; I tried to sleep but couldn't and the laughter in the room didn't seem to stop. So I went out and politely asked them to keep it down. Once I went back and tried to settle in, there was more of that laughter. They received a second warning. Though I heard hushed tones for about 5 minutes after the warning, the decibel level gradually kept going up, with more laughter. Feeling totally awake now I went out into the hall and started watching a movie. By now, actually, the anger had died down and I was enjoying the movie; oblivious that a bunch of youngsters were huddled in the bedroom too frightened to come out to the kitchen for even a glass of water. A year later, my sister tells me that when I had come out into the hall that night they were all scared. I was the nasty preggy witch who was ready to have them for a midnight snack. For lack of space one of them had to actually crash in the hall; but they decided to adjust themselves in the bedroom, packed like a tin of sardines, rather than endure my wrath and be eaten alive. This was the sort of monster I had turned into.
Luckily for me and all around me, the hormones settled themselves in about four months time. I was turning back into my sweeter, calmer self; oh ok, that's a lie. But I was definitely less nasty and hubby had now stopped wearing his protective armour. Also, the little cross and holy water under my pillow were now gone. And they told me it was to ward off nightmares and help me sleep better.
But that doesn't mean I didn't have any aversions. One particular brand of instant noodles made me go green and extremely nauseous. So while the whole family would enjoy a Sunday evening snack of instant noodles I'd stand in the balcony, which didn't overlook the pool but a huge dumping ground for garbage, waiting for everyone to finish and destroy all traces of the nauseating factor before they called me back in. Actually the foul smell emanating from the garbage was much more appealing than the instant noodles at that time.
Another nauseating factor was a particular brand of my sister's perfume. One day she was strutting around the house wearing this perfume and I was watching a food show whilst suddenly feeling extremely nauseous. It was either the food show or the perfume. The poor girl got told off for wearing the perfume, which I actually loved before and was sent to her room; what?! only until I was done watching the food show. Another time she was getting dressed for a party and there was that nauseous feeling again. She had worn "the" perfume. The poor girl stayed put in her room the whole time until her friend came to pick her up. That perfume was probably FedEx'ed to a tribal woman in Timbuktu. She didn't want to tick me off again and be resigned to the fate of being jailed in her room a third time.
Nausea is one thing; but being hormonal is a totally different streak. To compensate for not having any morning sickness, my hormones decided to have the cake and it eat it too. Now normally I do tend to get a little cranky and I have to agree that there is definitely a hint of nastiness in my nature. But the pregnancy hormones cranked up these things to a whole new level. The Queen of Bad Times had arrived. Who bore the brunt of these hormones? First the husband of course; I thought he'd divorce me at the end of nine months. I was actually surprised at how nasty I could be. Any question he asked was always returned with a retort, nothing witty, just plain mean.
Him: Are you feeling alright?
Me: None of your business
Him: Are you going to work today?
Me: None of your business
Him: Do you want me to pick you up from work?
Me: Just stop asking me stupid questions ok!
At first he'd ask me why I was behaving like a total lunatic. That would be met by a long winded speech on insensitivity, ignorance and how men had the best deal in all of this. But he learnt fast. I was still the lunatic but he took it in his stride and would not say a word. It's a wonder that he didn't go insane at the end of it all; all that pent up frustration I was causing him was definitely not easy to subdue.
My immediate family were not spared 'the horror that was me', either. One night my brothers, sister and a couple of their friends were home. At about one in the morning I was woken by this raucous laughter. And with that the hormones too were ignited into top gear; I tried to sleep but couldn't and the laughter in the room didn't seem to stop. So I went out and politely asked them to keep it down. Once I went back and tried to settle in, there was more of that laughter. They received a second warning. Though I heard hushed tones for about 5 minutes after the warning, the decibel level gradually kept going up, with more laughter. Feeling totally awake now I went out into the hall and started watching a movie. By now, actually, the anger had died down and I was enjoying the movie; oblivious that a bunch of youngsters were huddled in the bedroom too frightened to come out to the kitchen for even a glass of water. A year later, my sister tells me that when I had come out into the hall that night they were all scared. I was the nasty preggy witch who was ready to have them for a midnight snack. For lack of space one of them had to actually crash in the hall; but they decided to adjust themselves in the bedroom, packed like a tin of sardines, rather than endure my wrath and be eaten alive. This was the sort of monster I had turned into.
Luckily for me and all around me, the hormones settled themselves in about four months time. I was turning back into my sweeter, calmer self; oh ok, that's a lie. But I was definitely less nasty and hubby had now stopped wearing his protective armour. Also, the little cross and holy water under my pillow were now gone. And they told me it was to ward off nightmares and help me sleep better.
Friday, March 25, 2011
The Pregnancy Diaries: Genesis
All of us love the 'how it all began' stories. "How did you two meet? Tell us how it all began. Did he propose?" No no he didn't; my next door neighbour with two wives and a stump did. Of course he proposed, begged and cried too; at least I'd like to think the last two were true. But I am not going to bore you with the story of how we met now, maybe another time.
Almost two years ago, while summer was just setting in, that 'time of the month' didn't come by. I was really really late and without even taking the pregnancy test, a little nagging voice told me that the oven was already baking a little bun. But I didn't want to believe it. So I took a pregnancy test, feeling quite nervous. The test showed two pink lines, which meant there was definitely a bun on the way. Still couldn't believe it; sometimes these tests can turn out all wrong and secretly this is what I was hoping for. Hubby was handing me out congratulations with a broad smile on his face and I looked, well, rather upset. Don't get me wrong I love kids and at that time, if the kids weren't mine even better. You just had to hand the crying baby back to the parents after having had a great time playing peek-a-boo and this little piggy with them.
There were two aspects to my emotion. One, it was totally unexpected. Everything that was supposed to be worn was worn. We could attribute this to a latex malfunction. Also counting back it should've been the 'safe period'; I think no such thing exists and the term was probably coined by a lazy guy who didn't want to get the rubber on.
Two, I had been up, close and personal with babies; I knew how they functioned. I had been there and done that, when you have 5 siblings it's difficult to not get involved. They poop, eat, cry, sleep not necessarily in that order; the crying usually precedes and succeeds the other activities. Bringing up a baby needs a lot patience, energy and sanity; all three attributes very questionable in my nature. So mine feeling upset was really not abnormal. See, already wearing thin on sanity.
However, just to be absolutely sure, I took the test the next day as well. And what do you know, the two pink lines promptly appeared. It was like the stupid little pee stick was mocking me; wanna go again sister, we'll be right here. So I made the call to hubby to tell him again that the two little pink lines had made an appearance and that I was definitely pregnant. He was not able to contain his joy. I think he was already thinking of hideous baby names, dreaming of an angelic quiet little bundle that he look at for hours, who'd catch hold of his finger and fall asleep in his arms. Clearly hubby had no clue what he was signing up for. He had probably seen little ducklings following the mother duck everywhere with the father duck making only a guest appearance. Probably it was the case of "someone else's kid" with fathers he'd seen, when the baby cries it is instantly handed over to the mother.
The next thing we had to do, to be triply sure, since we'd taken the home test twice, was to visit the doctor. I had some faint trace of hope that I was not preggers and that the home tests were past their expiration date; the pee sticks were probably snickering now; dream on sister. Once inside the doctor's room there were a lot of questions followed by a lot of prodding in the area below my waist. When it was time for the internal exam (which involves no pen or paper) I felt like I was punched in the guts, literally. I must've died for two seconds. Definitely not a great start to a "magical" pregnancy, I was just violated by a huge rubber gloved hand and it was legal.
Congratulations were in order again. This time I was undeniably, positively, surely pregnant. Now based on data provided by me to the doctor before all the pressing, jabbing and digging began I was now 8 weeks preggy. 8 weeks? I told the doctor that that was just impossible. On the date she suggested, to get the bun rolling, it would have taken a miracle like an immaculate conception or sex with a stranger; both not my style. Hubby probably threw me a sly sidewards glance, this doctor was making me look bad. I told her categorically that I was not in the country at the time and was also without my husband, so this was quite a preposterous suggestion. She seemed to laugh suggestively; I think my frown made it clear that I was not the swaying type; also one who had made it through a really long long-distance relationship. hmmph.
Sensing that my hormones were kicking in already the doctor quickly suggested that I get my first antenatal scan done. In the scan room there was some more prodding and there on the screen was this tiny dot; that teensy speck was my baby. Now these scanners are highly intelligent and can calculate a whole lot of stuff themselves. A report was instantly generated which was then handed over to my doctor. Looking at it my doctor said that I was 4 weeks pregnant. I told you I did not cheat.
When we went home hubby and I were looking quite fondly at the little speck; there was our baby. I had warmed up to this after all. On reading the report we came across the Date of Conception. Now what exactly was this doctor trying to prove, I thought to myself. The report suggested a date when I was in my hometown and hubby in Bangalore. Thankfully my hubby trusts me completely so no deep dive into the errant dates were necessary.
Until now this has been our great unsolvable mystery. So as to how it all began, we have no freaking idea.
Almost two years ago, while summer was just setting in, that 'time of the month' didn't come by. I was really really late and without even taking the pregnancy test, a little nagging voice told me that the oven was already baking a little bun. But I didn't want to believe it. So I took a pregnancy test, feeling quite nervous. The test showed two pink lines, which meant there was definitely a bun on the way. Still couldn't believe it; sometimes these tests can turn out all wrong and secretly this is what I was hoping for. Hubby was handing me out congratulations with a broad smile on his face and I looked, well, rather upset. Don't get me wrong I love kids and at that time, if the kids weren't mine even better. You just had to hand the crying baby back to the parents after having had a great time playing peek-a-boo and this little piggy with them.
There were two aspects to my emotion. One, it was totally unexpected. Everything that was supposed to be worn was worn. We could attribute this to a latex malfunction. Also counting back it should've been the 'safe period'; I think no such thing exists and the term was probably coined by a lazy guy who didn't want to get the rubber on.
Two, I had been up, close and personal with babies; I knew how they functioned. I had been there and done that, when you have 5 siblings it's difficult to not get involved. They poop, eat, cry, sleep not necessarily in that order; the crying usually precedes and succeeds the other activities. Bringing up a baby needs a lot patience, energy and sanity; all three attributes very questionable in my nature. So mine feeling upset was really not abnormal. See, already wearing thin on sanity.
However, just to be absolutely sure, I took the test the next day as well. And what do you know, the two pink lines promptly appeared. It was like the stupid little pee stick was mocking me; wanna go again sister, we'll be right here. So I made the call to hubby to tell him again that the two little pink lines had made an appearance and that I was definitely pregnant. He was not able to contain his joy. I think he was already thinking of hideous baby names, dreaming of an angelic quiet little bundle that he look at for hours, who'd catch hold of his finger and fall asleep in his arms. Clearly hubby had no clue what he was signing up for. He had probably seen little ducklings following the mother duck everywhere with the father duck making only a guest appearance. Probably it was the case of "someone else's kid" with fathers he'd seen, when the baby cries it is instantly handed over to the mother.
The next thing we had to do, to be triply sure, since we'd taken the home test twice, was to visit the doctor. I had some faint trace of hope that I was not preggers and that the home tests were past their expiration date; the pee sticks were probably snickering now; dream on sister. Once inside the doctor's room there were a lot of questions followed by a lot of prodding in the area below my waist. When it was time for the internal exam (which involves no pen or paper) I felt like I was punched in the guts, literally. I must've died for two seconds. Definitely not a great start to a "magical" pregnancy, I was just violated by a huge rubber gloved hand and it was legal.
Congratulations were in order again. This time I was undeniably, positively, surely pregnant. Now based on data provided by me to the doctor before all the pressing, jabbing and digging began I was now 8 weeks preggy. 8 weeks? I told the doctor that that was just impossible. On the date she suggested, to get the bun rolling, it would have taken a miracle like an immaculate conception or sex with a stranger; both not my style. Hubby probably threw me a sly sidewards glance, this doctor was making me look bad. I told her categorically that I was not in the country at the time and was also without my husband, so this was quite a preposterous suggestion. She seemed to laugh suggestively; I think my frown made it clear that I was not the swaying type; also one who had made it through a really long long-distance relationship. hmmph.
Sensing that my hormones were kicking in already the doctor quickly suggested that I get my first antenatal scan done. In the scan room there was some more prodding and there on the screen was this tiny dot; that teensy speck was my baby. Now these scanners are highly intelligent and can calculate a whole lot of stuff themselves. A report was instantly generated which was then handed over to my doctor. Looking at it my doctor said that I was 4 weeks pregnant. I told you I did not cheat.
When we went home hubby and I were looking quite fondly at the little speck; there was our baby. I had warmed up to this after all. On reading the report we came across the Date of Conception. Now what exactly was this doctor trying to prove, I thought to myself. The report suggested a date when I was in my hometown and hubby in Bangalore. Thankfully my hubby trusts me completely so no deep dive into the errant dates were necessary.
Until now this has been our great unsolvable mystery. So as to how it all began, we have no freaking idea.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Baby's First Words
All mothers secretly hope that their baby's first word will be Mama and some get lucky. Some are quite ok if it's not Mama as long as it's not Dada as well.
My little one decided that her first word would be Dada. Her Dada was obviously ecstatic, his little one had shown her allegiance; but that bubble soon burst.
We went to the supermarket that weekend and Kicky the attention seeker that she is, called out to the shop assistant, "DADA, DADA, DADA". The shop assistant looked quite bewildered, possibly a little shocked. Kicky actually looked like his groupie with her hand sticking out, waving frantically at the shop assistant while jumping up and down in the trolley seat. Had her Dada been there he would've rushed to the scene thinking that his darling girl was looking out for him. I on the other hand was trying to push the trolley to the other aisle as fast as I could; I didn't want her claiming someone else to be her Dada.
But then it didn't stop there; one night at a restaurant a young chap seated behind our table had to endure a barrage of "DADA's" every five minutes. The first time, he indulged in a little baby talk, the second time he smiled and threw in a monkey face, the third time he just smiled, the fourth time he tried to ignore her but she was persistent and he just about managed another smile, the fifth time he looked like he was going to have a fit; this is what a garrulous 8 month old with a limited vocabulary (one word to be precise) can do to you.
For a few months all the men she came in contact with were 'Dada' (which definitely made me look bad)
After 'Dada' the little one's palaver moved to Papa, Baba and finally... finally... hallelujah... Mama! Till then I had to endure the "Oh, she loves her Dada, she says Dada. That's so sweet. Does she say Mama yet?"
With gritted teeth hidden behind my polite smile I had to answer, "No, not yet". And then, "Oh don't worry, she'll say Mama sometime. But look at that eh, she said Dada first". Some housewives need to get a life.
So like the Dada episode, even 'Mama' was not as straightforward as I would've wanted it to be. One morning she came to me saying "Mama, Mama" with the sweetest voice. I hugged her and said,"Yes Darling, Mama is here". Then the sweet voice turned into desperate cries 'Mama, Mamaa, MAMAAAA', she was also pointing to her bottle of water. So 'Mama' was now water and me. I thought I had it all figured out, whenever I heard her say 'Mama' I would confidently hand her her water bottle, when one day she pushed the water away. She kept crying saying 'Mama' with the frequency going almost ultrasonic, I thought the neighbourhood's dogs would come barging into my house. The crying just wouldn't stop. I tried a funny dance which always makes her laugh, nothing; tried making funny faces which I figured turned out to be scary when she started crying even more. Toys were thrown against the wall and her favourite Pooh bear was just short of being crucified. By now I was sure that a vein had popped somewhere in my head. And then, what I can only call a maternal hormone intervention (I think some people call it mother's instinct) saved me; a bottle of milk stopped the incessant crying. So 'Mama' was now water, milk and me. Excellent! This is what I needed to complicate my life some more.
Since then my little blabbermouth's vocabulary has grown, thank goodness. However adorable it may sound, four rhyming words rambled over and over again can induce acute hemicrania; migraine anyone?
My little one decided that her first word would be Dada. Her Dada was obviously ecstatic, his little one had shown her allegiance; but that bubble soon burst.
We went to the supermarket that weekend and Kicky the attention seeker that she is, called out to the shop assistant, "DADA, DADA, DADA". The shop assistant looked quite bewildered, possibly a little shocked. Kicky actually looked like his groupie with her hand sticking out, waving frantically at the shop assistant while jumping up and down in the trolley seat. Had her Dada been there he would've rushed to the scene thinking that his darling girl was looking out for him. I on the other hand was trying to push the trolley to the other aisle as fast as I could; I didn't want her claiming someone else to be her Dada.
But then it didn't stop there; one night at a restaurant a young chap seated behind our table had to endure a barrage of "DADA's" every five minutes. The first time, he indulged in a little baby talk, the second time he smiled and threw in a monkey face, the third time he just smiled, the fourth time he tried to ignore her but she was persistent and he just about managed another smile, the fifth time he looked like he was going to have a fit; this is what a garrulous 8 month old with a limited vocabulary (one word to be precise) can do to you.
For a few months all the men she came in contact with were 'Dada' (which definitely made me look bad)
After 'Dada' the little one's palaver moved to Papa, Baba and finally... finally... hallelujah... Mama! Till then I had to endure the "Oh, she loves her Dada, she says Dada. That's so sweet. Does she say Mama yet?"
With gritted teeth hidden behind my polite smile I had to answer, "No, not yet". And then, "Oh don't worry, she'll say Mama sometime. But look at that eh, she said Dada first". Some housewives need to get a life.
So like the Dada episode, even 'Mama' was not as straightforward as I would've wanted it to be. One morning she came to me saying "Mama, Mama" with the sweetest voice. I hugged her and said,"Yes Darling, Mama is here". Then the sweet voice turned into desperate cries 'Mama, Mamaa, MAMAAAA', she was also pointing to her bottle of water. So 'Mama' was now water and me. I thought I had it all figured out, whenever I heard her say 'Mama' I would confidently hand her her water bottle, when one day she pushed the water away. She kept crying saying 'Mama' with the frequency going almost ultrasonic, I thought the neighbourhood's dogs would come barging into my house. The crying just wouldn't stop. I tried a funny dance which always makes her laugh, nothing; tried making funny faces which I figured turned out to be scary when she started crying even more. Toys were thrown against the wall and her favourite Pooh bear was just short of being crucified. By now I was sure that a vein had popped somewhere in my head. And then, what I can only call a maternal hormone intervention (I think some people call it mother's instinct) saved me; a bottle of milk stopped the incessant crying. So 'Mama' was now water, milk and me. Excellent! This is what I needed to complicate my life some more.
Since then my little blabbermouth's vocabulary has grown, thank goodness. However adorable it may sound, four rhyming words rambled over and over again can induce acute hemicrania; migraine anyone?
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Valentine's Day Diaries
You'll find me reminiscing a lot on this blog, because lets face it a housewife really doesn't have much to tell you about her mundane activities.
But well, some days are less mundane, like Valentines Day when your husband surprises you with flowers, wine and chocolate. Cliche, cliche, cliche, I know! But I have to hand it to my guy. Since our dating days he has not once failed to send me flowers on Valentines Day. And he calls himself the quintessential unromantic chap; the unromantic chap who made a long distance call on one Valentines Day (VD){Yes, I know it also stands for Venereal Disease, but I am gonna go with it} and played a love song on the guitar for me. Those were the days huh? The guitar is now in a store room, probably the home of a few rodents, copulating while making some sweet music.
Though I have a romantic streak in me, when it comes to VD I really hate showing any enthusiasm. So one year when I received cards and flowers, I wanted to send something back; long distance relationships are hard, I had to show I cared. I reluctantly went to the card store, with vain attempts to hide myself while in there; where the hell are you going to hide a large frame such as mine in a 4ftX4ft store. Also on VD and the run up to VD the "love" section of the store is all red, complete with hanging hearts and a huge board that says "VALENTINES DAY CARDS AVAILABLE HERE", only the disco lights and flashing arrows pointing towards the cards are missing. What can you do, stand at the "Sympathies" section and attempt to chose a VD card? So the best way to do it is eeny meeny miny moe; three cards, a quick payment and a swift dash out the store. A close look at purchases later revealed that I actually hd a naughty card suggesting sex, one with poetry that I just couldn't understand and a red X'mas card with a fat Santa on it. Oh well, so much for my ingenious card picking technique. And these fabulous cards showing him how much I love him, reached him exactly two weeks after VD.
Another year, I decided to be good and send him something that would actually reach him on VD. So I went online and ordered him a bottle of wine, chocolates and a rose also I think. I know this sort of thing is a big NO NO for guys. They hate this stuff; but given my limited resources these were things I could afford. Also, I had it sent to his workplace, another big NO NO. He was quite shocked to see this huge package for him, and since it didn't mention his first name he was going to send it back. The courier guy and he were probably shoving it back and forth at each other when the former asked the latter to confirm his mobile no and it matched with the one on the package. So my Valentine was now confused; surely his girlfriend could not have sent him something already; it was too early.
Now that we're married there are no more trips to the match-box sized card store; you'd think they'd want to make these stores bigger, but no, while choosing cards you're also trying not to brush against the creepy guy who's looking at a card that reads "You make my pants ping".
So with cards not an option any more, and learning from my previous disaster of a gift, what can you gift a guy on VD. He can get away with flowers, wine and chocolate, though he does have the option of diamonds; and I have to choose from platinum cuff links, silk ties and single malt whiskies. No fair, no fair, not with my depleting finances.
So this VD hubby walks in quite late at night with a bunch of lovely red roses, a wine bag that has my favourite wine and a box of chocolates. He was hoping to take me out to dinner as well, he got brownie points just for thoughtfulness. Now I was actually quite surprised that he remembered it was VD and how the hell did he manage to procure a lovely bunch of red roses at that time of the night. There are exactly 3 florists on the drive between his workplace and home. The first place he tried, the florist had no flowers, zilch, all sold out. The second place, there were about a dozen desperate looking men scavenging the florists place for flowers; they looked like hungry vultures apparently. One guy asked the florist what did he have left and he said that there were only pink flowers. The man jumped at it and said, "Any colour will do man, I just need flowers, any flower, any colour, please just give me flowers". The men looked like their lives were on the line. So seeing no hope here hubby moves on to the next florist.
The florist tells him that he's lucky because he just had a bouquet cancelled. The next minute another desperate looking chap walks in only to be told that hubby took the last bunch. He begged him for just one flower from the bunch and seeing his pitiful state, trying to imagine what would be in store for the poor chap if he didn't oblige hubby generously gave him a flower and also offered more. But the chap was happy with one, insisted on paying for it and went out a relieved man. My hubby spoke of it like he saved the chap's life.
I really don't know what the fuss is all about; but then I got my flowers, wine and chocolate. I am still waiting for my diamonds.
But well, some days are less mundane, like Valentines Day when your husband surprises you with flowers, wine and chocolate. Cliche, cliche, cliche, I know! But I have to hand it to my guy. Since our dating days he has not once failed to send me flowers on Valentines Day. And he calls himself the quintessential unromantic chap; the unromantic chap who made a long distance call on one Valentines Day (VD){Yes, I know it also stands for Venereal Disease, but I am gonna go with it} and played a love song on the guitar for me. Those were the days huh? The guitar is now in a store room, probably the home of a few rodents, copulating while making some sweet music.
Though I have a romantic streak in me, when it comes to VD I really hate showing any enthusiasm. So one year when I received cards and flowers, I wanted to send something back; long distance relationships are hard, I had to show I cared. I reluctantly went to the card store, with vain attempts to hide myself while in there; where the hell are you going to hide a large frame such as mine in a 4ftX4ft store. Also on VD and the run up to VD the "love" section of the store is all red, complete with hanging hearts and a huge board that says "VALENTINES DAY CARDS AVAILABLE HERE", only the disco lights and flashing arrows pointing towards the cards are missing. What can you do, stand at the "Sympathies" section and attempt to chose a VD card? So the best way to do it is eeny meeny miny moe; three cards, a quick payment and a swift dash out the store. A close look at purchases later revealed that I actually hd a naughty card suggesting sex, one with poetry that I just couldn't understand and a red X'mas card with a fat Santa on it. Oh well, so much for my ingenious card picking technique. And these fabulous cards showing him how much I love him, reached him exactly two weeks after VD.
Another year, I decided to be good and send him something that would actually reach him on VD. So I went online and ordered him a bottle of wine, chocolates and a rose also I think. I know this sort of thing is a big NO NO for guys. They hate this stuff; but given my limited resources these were things I could afford. Also, I had it sent to his workplace, another big NO NO. He was quite shocked to see this huge package for him, and since it didn't mention his first name he was going to send it back. The courier guy and he were probably shoving it back and forth at each other when the former asked the latter to confirm his mobile no and it matched with the one on the package. So my Valentine was now confused; surely his girlfriend could not have sent him something already; it was too early.
Now that we're married there are no more trips to the match-box sized card store; you'd think they'd want to make these stores bigger, but no, while choosing cards you're also trying not to brush against the creepy guy who's looking at a card that reads "You make my pants ping".
So with cards not an option any more, and learning from my previous disaster of a gift, what can you gift a guy on VD. He can get away with flowers, wine and chocolate, though he does have the option of diamonds; and I have to choose from platinum cuff links, silk ties and single malt whiskies. No fair, no fair, not with my depleting finances.
So this VD hubby walks in quite late at night with a bunch of lovely red roses, a wine bag that has my favourite wine and a box of chocolates. He was hoping to take me out to dinner as well, he got brownie points just for thoughtfulness. Now I was actually quite surprised that he remembered it was VD and how the hell did he manage to procure a lovely bunch of red roses at that time of the night. There are exactly 3 florists on the drive between his workplace and home. The first place he tried, the florist had no flowers, zilch, all sold out. The second place, there were about a dozen desperate looking men scavenging the florists place for flowers; they looked like hungry vultures apparently. One guy asked the florist what did he have left and he said that there were only pink flowers. The man jumped at it and said, "Any colour will do man, I just need flowers, any flower, any colour, please just give me flowers". The men looked like their lives were on the line. So seeing no hope here hubby moves on to the next florist.
The florist tells him that he's lucky because he just had a bouquet cancelled. The next minute another desperate looking chap walks in only to be told that hubby took the last bunch. He begged him for just one flower from the bunch and seeing his pitiful state, trying to imagine what would be in store for the poor chap if he didn't oblige hubby generously gave him a flower and also offered more. But the chap was happy with one, insisted on paying for it and went out a relieved man. My hubby spoke of it like he saved the chap's life.
I really don't know what the fuss is all about; but then I got my flowers, wine and chocolate. I am still waiting for my diamonds.
Monday, March 21, 2011
The Resurrection
Resurrection is not a myth after all. Two years ago I think the writer died while the lunatic has been getting loonier and the bibliophile has stayed true and now has a groaning bookshelf.
So what happened to the writer in the past two years?
A brief history:
1. Lost 17 kilos with a lot of determination and sacrifice; no food, no booze.
2. Got knocked up; there is no such thing as a safe period
3. Gained 20 kilos; that was the effect of the pregnancy, though the baby was just under 3 kilos, the rest was just me.
4. Had a baby; a gorgeous little girl who is living up to her alter ego 'the little monster'
5. Quit my job; said bye bye to the corporate world which I used to complain about anyway but to be honest had an empty feeling inside for quite a while after that.
6. Finally resigned to the fact that I am now a housewife; though I can't say it, the word 'housewife' gets stuck in my throat. So when people ask me what I do I say "Well I 'just' quit my job"; 'Just' has now been almost a year.
7. Moved houses; (not our own, clarifying because everyone keeps asking me that)Moved to Electronics City in Bangalore which believe me is anything but a city, the postal address is Doddathogur Village, so yeah we have moved to a village. You can actually see butterflies around here and sometimes hear a pin drop. Occasionally the silence can drive you crazy.
8. Took on a new job as Full Time Maid with no pay; and someone will have to really list down the benefits for me. If another person says 'the joy of watching your child grow' I will run after them with my rolling pin and beat them to death.
9. Joined a Yoga Class; in the hope that I will shed the 20 kilos that I piled on during pregnancy I now spend and hour in the morning discovering muscles that I didn't know existed; contorting my body into unimaginable postures.
That was in short the writer's life in the past two years. Hope to keep writing more often now. So until the next time, ta ta.
So what happened to the writer in the past two years?
A brief history:
1. Lost 17 kilos with a lot of determination and sacrifice; no food, no booze.
2. Got knocked up; there is no such thing as a safe period
3. Gained 20 kilos; that was the effect of the pregnancy, though the baby was just under 3 kilos, the rest was just me.
4. Had a baby; a gorgeous little girl who is living up to her alter ego 'the little monster'
5. Quit my job; said bye bye to the corporate world which I used to complain about anyway but to be honest had an empty feeling inside for quite a while after that.
6. Finally resigned to the fact that I am now a housewife; though I can't say it, the word 'housewife' gets stuck in my throat. So when people ask me what I do I say "Well I 'just' quit my job"; 'Just' has now been almost a year.
7. Moved houses; (not our own, clarifying because everyone keeps asking me that)Moved to Electronics City in Bangalore which believe me is anything but a city, the postal address is Doddathogur Village, so yeah we have moved to a village. You can actually see butterflies around here and sometimes hear a pin drop. Occasionally the silence can drive you crazy.
8. Took on a new job as Full Time Maid with no pay; and someone will have to really list down the benefits for me. If another person says 'the joy of watching your child grow' I will run after them with my rolling pin and beat them to death.
9. Joined a Yoga Class; in the hope that I will shed the 20 kilos that I piled on during pregnancy I now spend and hour in the morning discovering muscles that I didn't know existed; contorting my body into unimaginable postures.
That was in short the writer's life in the past two years. Hope to keep writing more often now. So until the next time, ta ta.
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